Twenty-Six Too Little
by edmelon
Summary: Twenty-Six days is far too little to spend in your company. Twenty-six days of prompts for the Bagginshield Alphabet month on Tumblr. Most chapters part of an 'Everybody Lives' AU. Some drabbles. Plenty of Bagginshield.
1. A for Adventure

Twenty-Six Too Little

 _Summary:_ Twenty-Six days is far too little to spend in your company. Twenty-six days of prompts for the Bagginshield Alphabet month on Tumblr.

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 _A/N_ : Because I have recently become Bagginshield trash so, of course, when logged onto tumblr this morning to find that I had completely and foolishly forgotten that it was the wonderful month of Bagginshield _already_ I immediately poured over each prompt to try and whip something up. So here we are. I've never actually written these characters before either, so this should prove to be very interesting.

I hope you enjoy.

* * *

 _ **A**_ – _A_ dventure.

 _Summary_ : Conquering lands, crushing goblins, slaying dragons – it wasn't every day you went on an adventure.

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The provisions were all packed. Their route was carefully and meticulously planned; they had spent all night sat before the fireplace pouring over maps of paths well-trodden to clearly mark and manage the direction of their journey. As it was, rolled-up parchments of the land and its boundaries poked from the top of one of the bags on the table. The packs were fit to bursting, but Bilbo shuffled the contents around for a moment and managed to make just a little more space for a tub of his most famous oatcakes. He managed to secure the flap of the bag over the top with some difficulty and began to look over the other to make sure all was in order. It was to be a big day – or so he was told – and he wouldn't want to spoil it with shoddy planning. His organisation was the best in the Shire, after all! No, that would be Thorin's job after all.

Bilbo glanced over his shoulder. The dwarf in question was leant up against the edge of the counter, barely even dressed for such a day and still munching on bits of leftover breakfast like he had all the time in the world to kill. _'Damned dwarves and their lack of urgency,'_ Bilbo thought to himself. Did his slightly grumpier half want to get himself in trouble if he wasn't on the doorstep and ready to go by the _exact_ hour of their estimated departure?

Although, he had to admit, there was something about that early-morning look of laziness that made his heart flip like nothing ever had before; that made his throat feel dry and his palms clammy. He was just so… casual and… He had to stop himself from striding straight over there and running his fingers through that dark mane of his, whispering sweetly into his ear and kissing him until all thoughts of sleep had left him and they were left with only each other… Just each other…

"You're staring."

The deep rumble of his voice brought Bilbo out of his reverie and he blinked, finding his eyes locked with the icy-blue of Thorin's. He swallowed.

"I was just wondering when you were actually going to get a move on or do you just plan on eating my seedcakes all day?"

Thorin looked down dumbly at the food in his hand as if he had no idea where it had come from.

"And–And, actually," Bilbo walked briskly over and took the tray of cakes beside him; "those were meant for today!" He pottered about the kitchen, trying to find some sort of tin to store them in. "For goodness' sake, Thorin! You'd better get dressed, else you'll be in pretty hot water and I'm not going to be the one to pull you out! You promised you'd go!"

Thorin let out a heavy sigh that made Bilbo send him one dangerous look – an empty threat, of course, that made the dwarf chuckle to himself.

"You're harsh to your dwarf, Master Baggins."

The hobbit laughed in response, but otherwise said nothing as he stuffed the last of the food into one of the packs on the table before moving on to the task of filling up their water-skins which hung empty off the side of the counter. And, of course, it was in that moment that his back was turned that Thorin snuck up from behind him and pulled him in for a tight, warming embrace.

"Trying to waste time?" Bilbo asked, amused and he chuckled when he received a low hum in reply that clearly meant 'yes'. "Enough, enough, now come on!" the hobbit supressed his laughter and managed to wriggle himself out of Thorin's grasp, slapping him playfully on the chest. "It's not every day you go on an _adventure_." Bilbo said and there was a deliberate edge to his voice. It was teasing and full of jest and it made Thorin want to burst into laughter. His hobbit was cheeky and he loved it, but instead he feigned a weary sigh.

"My Bilbo, _every_ day in your company is an adventure."

"Cheesy."

"But true." Was the response and he stepped back in again, yet closer – so, _so_ much closer until they were face-to-face, their breath mingling and suddenly all joking and mischief left them. Thorin's arms wound themselves around the hobbit's middle, bringing him in against his chest. Tiny hobbit hands braced themselves against his gloriously chiselled front, one resting above his heart and staying there to feel the steady, comforting beat inside.

" _Thorin,"_ Bilbo breathed as they inched ever-closer. His eyes dropped for just a second to his lips and the sudden tension in the air was far too much for either to resist. With a whisper of _"Mr Baggins"_ the gap between them was closed and their lips met in a kiss so tender and loving that the hobbit feared his knees would give out beneath him. He wound his fingers through dark, wiry tresses flecked with silver and pulled the taller dwarf down to reach his level where he deepened their kiss, opening his mouth and allowing their tongues to intertwine.

It was sweeter than wine and more satisfying than anything either of them had ever known and to think it had taken their very own adventure there and back again – complete with goblins and dragons and death-defying deeds in battle – to get them there was a marvel.

They parted breathless and reluctant, lips rosy red and eyes glazed over with desire.

"Thorin, I… You need to… I– Um…"

A smile split across his face as he watched his lover stammer, stuttering trying to stitch together his scrambled thoughts.

Bilbo tried desperately to form a sentence. "You'll leave him waiting…"

"Just five more minutes, Bilbo," Thorin whispered, leaning in and placing gentle, tiny kisses on the hobbit's cheek.

"No, Thorin, you – _ah…"_

It was useless. Bilbo could never resist. He could never resist the longing that he felt when faced with the warmth of Thorin's body; he could never fight against the hot kisses against his neck or the breath against his lips and it wasn't long before he just had to say _"To hell with it all!"_ and give in and sink deeper into the arms of his dwarf. _His_ dwarf. No one else's. Simply and purely _his_ Thorin. And it was so blissful that they felt as though they had all the time in the world until –

" _Uncle Bilbo!"_

The little voice rang out from down the hall and all of a sudden they heard the footfalls echo on the walls. Little hobbit-feet were fast approaching and the pair separated themselves as quick as lightening; Bilbo practically throwing himself over to the side of the table where he appeared to look busy with the assortment of items laid out in front of him. And it was just in time, for, at that moment, the boy appeared in the doorway – all apple-cheeks and dark curls. Little Frodo, as it happened, seemed none the wiser to his parents' antics and his eyes fell upon his honorary Papa, lighting up like little blue gems and twinkling like the stars.

" _Papa Thorin!"_

Frodo's little feet pattered across the kitchen tiles as he ran at a sprint towards the dwarf, barrelling into his stomach and wrapping his arms round his legs. "Papa Thorin! Are you ready for our adventure! Remember, I told you? Last night? I told you I wanted to go and see the Wild! I wanna go on an adventure with you like Uncle Bilbo did! Papa Thorin, are you ready? You're not even _ready!"_

Chuckling at the boy and his endless stream of chatter, Thorin ruffled the boy's curly hair and straightened up to tower over him. If he had been irritated with the boys interruption he did not show it. As it was, the genuine childish glee in the little one's eyes was enough to reduce the mighty King under the Mountain into a mushy, warm, gentle soul. Thorin Oakenshield – a battle hardened warrior – was utterly smitten. And everybody knew it.

"My apologies, little Master," he said softly; "I shall return prepared for our day's adventure! You help your Uncle Bilbo with your things and I'll meet you at the door."

" _Aye_ , Papa Thorin!" Frodo nodded, using that funny little expression he'd learnt from one of the dwarves last time they'd visited from Erebor. Bilbo thought it was probably Bofur – he was always good with Frodo and the boy seemed to like him more than most, but it didn't matter. He managed to get the lad to lend a hand as he finished up their preparations for the day and got him to help carry everything to the door, ready to go when they were. And so Bilbo stood later that morning leant up against the round doorframe of Bag End and watched the tall, yet stocky figure of Thorin Oakenshield and the little body of his nephew make off under the early sun, disappearing off down the path of The Hill. He smiled at the sight and at Frodo with his little walking stick in hand. They were only going as far as Bywater! But it made him grin and Bilbo thought of his first adventure – the quest that had started it all, that had left him the person he was today and with the dwarf he would stay beside for as long as he lived. It was a warming sight and he waved them off with a smile on his face.


	2. B for Braids

Twenty-Six Too Little

 _ **B**_ _– B_ raids.

 _Summary_ : Thorin doesn't think he'll ever live it down.

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When Bilbo Baggins of Bag End opened the door he had been full of excitement – absolutely and positively _full_ of anticipation and he'd admit with some prying that he had in fact been pacing a hole in the rug in the hallway waiting for those few little raps on his front door. Yes, it had been a while. It had been a long, _long_ while since he'd received a visit from the dwarves of Erebor and so when he'd received a letter some weeks previous that he could be expecting one certain guest on his doorstep within the next few months he had been waiting eagerly for this day. When he'd thought about having this one… _particular_ visitor come to stay, well, that had only made him even more restless.

He'd played out all the scenes in his head; imagined all the scenarios, though he would never admit it. He pictured himself striding up to his door and he imagined the many ways in which he would greet them, greet them all, but, more importantly, how he would greet _him._

But what he hadn't imagined was _this._ No. Not in the slightest.

"Well," Bilbo said, his voice forcibly cheerful, yet at the same time utterly and completely _stunned_. "This _is_ a surprise!"

Before him, the King under the Mountain tilted his head and raised an eyebrow. "I assume you're not talking about the company."

It wasn't a question. Bilbo swallowed, somewhat uncomfortably awkward under Thorin's knowing gaze. _"Come in!"_ he exclaimed a bit too cheerfully and gestured for every dwarf to come inside and make themselves at home.

And so they all piled in one by one, giving him quick, amused glances as they passed him by and they most unusually left Thorin until the last. Bilbo's eyes met his for about a second before he had to lower them and he let him pass before hurriedly excusing himself to go and search the kitchen for the refreshments his guests would no doubt be expecting. He managed to busy himself in there for no more than a few minutes. As a hobbit incredibly fond of guests, many of the various cakes and breads and other nibbles were already sat there waiting for him. He cursed his organisation skills and gathered everything up on plates, started the drinks and so forth and all the while he kept glancing back anxiously over his shoulder to the doorway. He heard the many conversations and jests of his friends in his sitting room, but he had to keep checking, as if he were sure that a certain dwarf would make his way through and sneak up behind him. The hobbit pushed the thought away, still stunned from his encounter on the doorstep, and eventually mustered up the courage to take the long-awaited elevenses through to his guests as a good host should do.

It was not until the tea was hot and poured into the cups of his thirteen guests that Bilbo was finally forced to acknowledge the elephant in the room. The conversation between the dwarves had settled from the topic of Ered Luin from where they had just journeyed – there had been a great gathering of their kin and of the Dwarf Lords, hence King Thorin Oakenshield and his company passing through the west – and as silence fell about the room Thorin once more focused his attention on Bilbo who, at that point, had no other option but to give in.

"So…" Bilbo began, quite uncertain of how to proceed, his tone cautious and steady. "Thorin…" All attention was on him now. There was no backing out. His palms began to sweat. "What's..?"

' _Come on, Bilbo Baggins, don't be a fool – just get it over with!'_

The pause stretched uncomfortably long until, finally ( _finally!)_ he let out a snort of laughter. "Thorin, what on _earth_ is with that beard?"

Several of the dwarves sniggered. Thorin's nephews covered their faces with their hands and at least tried to be conspicuous whereas many others just outright burst into roars of amusement.

Yes, it had to be said. Thorin had indeed grown a beard in the time he'd been away from Bag End and his peculiar hobbit, but it was… _long_ – far longer than was deemed necessary. It was thick; it was _so_ thick and bushy that it made his face look unbelievably small like the tiny face of a robin with a puffed-out breast. It was long enough that it had been tucked into the King's belt and so voluminous that it had been split into two like the prongs of a snake's tongue and each prong had been pushed to the sides so that it did not get in the way of his front. Thorin's arms and hands poked timidly out from behind its sides and the image was just so new and unreal and the change was so unbelievable that Bilbo could not help but feel the tears of laughter gathering in the corners of his eyes. He held his stomach as he laughed and added breathlessly;

" _Thorin Oakenshield what has come over you?"_

For a few moments, the sitting room of Bag End was alive with guffawing although Thorin simply sat there, looking indifferent and unaffected and when the noise had finally started to die he said as if it were the most obvious thing in the world; "I am the King. It is the custom that the King must have such a beard."

"Well–well, _yes,_ but –"

"But what?"

Bilbo's stammering stopped and his heart all of a sudden fell at the piercing icy eyes of the King that bored into him from across the room. "We-Well…"

Oh where to start? It made him look so _round;_ so _puffy_ …

But Bilbo could never have brought himself to say it so blatantly. So, of course, from that moment, the hobbit found himself in quite a tight and awkward situation. In fact, it was so uncomfortable that Bilbo dropped the subject immediately and quite quickly (and probably a little too obviously) tried to steer the conversation in an entirely opposite direction so that for some time they went back to talking about the comings and goings between Erebor and the other dwarven kingdoms or about the happenings in the Shire… And they were so absorbed in trivial conversation for so long that the hobbit almost forgot entirely about any beard-related chatter.

Until, that is, when the dwarves offered to lend Bilbo a hand with his garden. Hamfast the new gardener was unwell and there was wood-chopping for the winter that needed to be done and, of course, dwarves would not grumble half as much as hobbits would when it came to such physical labour, so off they went into the outdoors. But, unfortunately for Bilbo, it was then that Thorin appeared at his side in the hallway and silently ushered him into a quiet corner.

"You don't like it." Thorin said quite suddenly and Bilbo blinked for a moment, unsure what he was talking about.

"What?"

There was a pause during which the King gave him a cold, hard look.

"Oh."

Bilbo squirmed in the corner, unhappy to have returned to this sort of uneasy talk.

"The beard," Thorin interrupted the silence. "You don't like it." He stated. His eyes pierced into the hobbit, his eyebrows low in an expression that Bilbo might have thought for a second was one of defeat, but all too quickly it changed and the King under the Mountain shifted, tilted his head and looked on him expectantly, silently demanding an answer. It was clear that this was not the reaction to his new look that Thorin had expected, but surely he had to have expected some sort of shock, hadn't he?

The thought that he had most likely deeply offended the dwarf hit Bilbo all too hard. It was like a stab in the gut and his heart fell at the realisation that he had unwittingly stepped straight onto Thorin's pride and sense of honour – two of the things he held most highly in regard. It was something he never wished to do to anyone, much less _Thorin Oakenshield_! All because of his careless humour! How low he felt in that moment – how awfully the guilt gnawed away at his stomach at the thought.

Suddenly feeling _very_ guilty for his initial response to this new… _situation,_ Bilbo opened his mouth and then closed it again, searching for the words to appease the dwarf.

"Thorin…" he began softly. "Thorin, I'm sorry. I am. I'm sorry for laughing like I did, but it's just…" He trailed off for a moment, searching in the other's face for any sign of emotion, but Thorin could be like a closed book when he wanted to and so Bilbo found nothing of use. "It's just _new,_ okay? And it's not that I don't like it. It's not necessarily that I hate it either. It's just new."

There was a moment in which the dwarf thought over this reaction. "Of course," he said eventually; "I understand."

But then an uneasy silence had settled over them. The seconds ticked by slowly until;

"There must be many things this beard is useful for." Bilbo added uncertainly, now very, very eager to make up for all the damage he'd caused and trying desperately to think of a way to compliment the mass of coarse hair sprouting from the King's face.

Thorin gave him a sceptical look.

"No, no, I mean it! Like, uh…" the hobbit trailed off as he wracked his brains for some sort of use one might have with a ridiculous amount of facial hair. "Um… Like you could…" Thorin watched on in half-amusement until, just as he was about to give up, all of a sudden something caught Bilbo's eye and he exclaimed; "Ah!" He reached forwards, towards the dwarf, and lifted from the mane of hair a great, golden bead engraved with runes he could not read. Two of these there were to separate the King's beard into two and to hold them in place and they shone brightly in the sunlight from the window nearby.

"You see, these," Bilbo began, pleased with his quick thinking; "Some nice decoration could be done with this. These would look very nice all woven and braided into a majestic dwarven beard like yours." And he smiled a cheery, sunny smile that had Thorin's chest fill with warmth and his heart thump loudly beneath his shirt.

"Well, Master Baggins," a smile began to twitch at the corner of his lips, but he tried his best to keep it under control; "perhaps I shall take your advice on the matter one day. Perhaps you'd like to make a few suggestions as you appear to know something about the braiding of beards?"

It was a teasing comment, Bilbo knew and he couldn't help but chuckle at the thought of the King's beard all bunched up in pretty beads and little gems and the like.

"Well, perhaps it wouldn't hurt to give it a go!" the hobbit laughed and, to tell the truth, it was a completely empty suggestion, but…

Thorin stiffened. A complete look of seriousness had overcome the others face. It was a warning sign not to be ignored.

Bilbo's eyes for one brief moment flickered over to the kitchen table. There in a small, decorated bowl there sat a small mountain of flowers. Tiny, dainty little fresh-picked flowers given to him just the other day for attending a younger cousin's birthday party. Thorin looked over at the flowers and then back at him.

"Bilbo."

The hobbit grinned mischievously.

"Bilbo no."

"Thorin,"

"I'm telling you, Bilbo–"

"Just this once!" his voice sounded controlled, trying to keep the laughter at bay as he scurried over into the kitchen, dragging the dwarf behind him and Thorin would have probably have protested if the gentle feel of Bilbo's hand on his wasn't enough to make his mind draw a complete blank. He cursed himself as he was sat down at the table and he sat there still as a statue because if there was one thing he'd learnt about hobbits… It was that they'd get their own way sooner or later. And Bilbo was particularly good at leading Thorin round like a puppy on a lead. He cursed himself again. Since when did he get so docile?

He brooded over this for quite some time as he waited for the hobbit's fun to end. Bilbo stood over him, trying to choke back giggles as he wound the stems of the little flowers through every hair he could – twisting and weaving them in between the masses of facial hair and making his own pretty patterns and colour combinations. Thorin was sure he'd want to die of embarrassment by the time all this was over. He'd have to remove the lot before the other dwarves came back and saw him – him! Their _King!_ – all made up and undignified and –

" _Thorin!"_

His heart could have stopped.

"Uncle!" Kili choked on his own words, stumbling through the doorway in front of the other dwarves – _all thirteen other dwarves! –_ who had all apparently chosen this moment, this exact, _inconvenient_ moment to make their entrance!

"Well, Thorin!" Bofur and his stupid hat popped out from behind the doorframe. "Don't you look pretty!"

"It's not–"

"Not what it looks like?"

"No, it's–"

" _Very_ tasteful, I must say. Although personally I'd have thought to add a little more red,"

"Or some bigger flowers? Maybe some clover?"

"Right you are, Fili, but I think the King still ought to have a bit of gold. Perhaps you'd better as Dis when we get back to the Mountain? She likes her gold beads, doesn't she Thorin?"

"Maybe you could finish off the look with a flower crown?"

And at that the dwarves all burst out into laughter, Bilbo among them, roaring with such cheer and mirth that, had it not been at his expense, Thorin might have joined them. But there was something that stopped him from rising up and punting each and every one of them out of Bag End. He looked over at the hobbit; looked over at the tears that gathered at the corners of his eyes; at the bright red of his cheeks and the amused glint in his eyes and he stopped. He hadn't meant it. Thorin knew he hadn't meant to wound his pride. He knew that, if anything, Bilbo was of good-heart. He was kind and mild-mannered (when he wanted to be) and as gentle as a cool breeze on a summers day. His burglar had meant no harm and the grin on his face was one he'd have done anything to see.

Thorin glanced at the mirror on the opposite wall at his new braided look and sighed, defeated as the Company picked at his pride, and Bilbo, still sniggering at the look of disdain on his face, gently pulled him to by the ends of his beard and kissed him sweetly on the cheek.

* * *

 _A/N_ : Kinda wishy-washy? I don't know. I wanted it to be more drabble-y, but it was late anyway and I just wanted to publish some more already.

But anyway I was recently reminded of one of the many interviews for the Hobbit in which Richard Armitage explains that the only way he felt at ease with Thorin's lack of a beard (as was described originally in the book) was when he read that Thorin left the Lonely Mountain with his beard singed from the flames of the dragon. He says that he would have kept it short in remembrance of all the dwarves who died that day, but would eventually grow it back when he became King and reclaimed his homeland. So, of course, when I saw the prompt 'braid' and thought of Thorin re-growing his facial hair… this happened.

Also to the reviewer who called me out on my crappy grammar in the title – chill, chill I know it's half-assed and incorrect, but have no fear because I meant to change it in the first place when I thought of something better. Although that might be a while. Because, you know, I'm pretty bad at thinking up titles, so I just gotta take some time to come up with something better and I'm sticking with this for now.

I'll try get today's actual _C_ prompt up when I can.


	3. C for Carrock

Twenty-Six Too Little

 _ **C**_ _– C_ arrock.

 _Summary:_ The sun rises red above the mountain tops and there's a certain sense of clarity.

* * *

When the first few hints of daylight come peering over the treetops, Thorin is still lost to the world around him; still hanging in the claws of this giant beast that glides swiftly through the dawn, carrying him to safety.

Behind him, he hears the cries of his nephews and of his friends, but they are faint and far away and his world is still clouded in the smoke of the fire and the snarling and growling of wargs drown out their voices.

But there is still one – just one voice that he can hear above the crackle of the fire; above the terror of the orcs' cackles and the baying of their hounds. There's a sense of familiarity to it as it cries out into the night, getting louder and louder…

And then Thorin's vision fades away and the next thing he knows he's spread on the top of the Carrock looking up at the face of the wizard

The voice in his flashbacks he hears ring out in his ears one more time. Except this time he recognises it.

" _The Halfling?"_

When Gandalf tells him that the hobbit is safe, Thorin feels a heavy burden he didn't even know he was carrying lift from his shoulders. He realises now that the thought of their burglar killing himself all for the sake of _him_ of all people would have been something he could not have lived with, but he still has to look – to search amongst the faces around him to make sure that Bilbo Baggins is definitely still there…

Dwarves surround him as he gets to his feet, but as he looks eastward, towards the top of the Carrock, he spots him stood away from the group, looking over almost cautiously. Thorin doesn't even realise he's glaring, angry and frustrated at the way things have played out, until he speaks and his words come out far harsher than he intended to. He expects the Halfling to cower – to sink to the ground and apologise, to ask for forgiveness, to fall into the shadow of the group… But he does not.

The sun now shines on the hobbit's face and suddenly Thorin thinks he sees it. He thinks he sees the light in his eyes for the first time – and they're so _bright,_ he notices – and the intricate little details of his face; his brows narrowed in concern, his jaw tense and he's still clenching his fists together tightly, he sees, and he stands stiff and straight like he's racing himself against an oncoming storm. And when Thorin stands – holds himself tall and menacing as he demands to know _"What were you doing?!" –_ Bilbo does not even falter. He twitches a little perhaps and he looks as though he wants to shrink under the shadow of the Mountain King, but the light in his eyes does not go out. It burns as steady as ever and Thorin sees that he does not regret it. He's not even shaking! He's not even shaking, knowing what he's done so recklessly! He is as resolute as anything Thorin's ever seen; seemingly without regret. He does not apologise for putting himself in danger – for almost getting himself _killed_ for someone who has given him nothing but dirty looks and scorn.

Oh, but doesn't Thorin feel guilty now? Doesn't it twist tightly like a knife in his chest at the recollection of all those things he'd said and done to this little hobbit who now seems far more bold and resilient than he ever could have guessed. He remembers Gandalf's words in Bag End: "No small amount of courage". Certainly this creature has proved them all wrong – perhaps even himself, but Thorin doesn't focus on that right now.

Right now the air is cool against his face, ruffling his beard and the weak rays of the sunlight are slowly beginning to warm his cheeks. He is alive all because of this most unlikeliest of heroes.

He is grateful beyond words and as the sun rises red; now high above the mountain tops Thorin sees it now. There's a certain sense of clarity as he locks his eyes with Bilbo's. The warmth of the sun has spread to his chest and his heart glows with the realisation. Bilbo is more than just a burglar – he sees that now and in that moment he only knows of one sure way to express himself.

Their first embrace is like a breath of fresh air and almost immediately he realises that he never wants to let him go and it's in that moment that all of his doubts leave him and he takes a deep breath.

' _Master Baggins,'_ he thinks to himself; _'Welcome to the Company.'_


	4. D for Dragon

Twenty-Six Too Little

 _ **D**_ – _D_ ragon.

 _Summary:_ Bilbo's not sure if it's just the adrenaline.

* * *

His heart is pounding inside his chest. It's so loud now he can hear each and every beat vibrating within his ears. And it's so hot – God, he's sweating! – but whether it's the fire or the fear, Bilbo does not know. His hands are clammy, he feels light-headed, but he still keeps going.

He and Thorin run through the deserted halls of Erebor – Balin is just ahead of them, already making his way at an impressive pace to the forges and he's already disappearing round a corner and out of sight.

There's fear in the air. There's urgency in every movement and Bilbo knows that he must _keep running_ from the terror that lies behind them.

He hears the throaty rumble and feels the change in the air as somewhere behind them the dragon releases a tidal wave of fire. It's crackling in the air and he and Thorin can only hope the others are okay as they run like headless chickens in completely opposite directions, trying to lead Smaug the Terrible off their course.

It's a remarkable plan that Thorin's come up with, Bilbo thinks and he dashes to keep up (because dwarves may be natural sprinters, but, though he may be good, _he_ is not). He and the dwarf are side by side now and they're nearing the end of their run (he hopes).

" _Come, Bilbo!"_ Thorin gasps between puffs of breath. _"This way!"_

Thorin makes to turn a corner, but Bilbo is getting slower and he grabs the hobbit by the arm, fingers locking around his forearm tightly, and whisks him sideways, down a little walkway and further away from the beast pursuing them.

Bilbo would have felt giddy if it weren't in such a death-defying context. In fact, he does feel a little lighter in the head than he did before – like his mind is about to float away from the rest of him – and he ends up inching closer to Thorin and his strong hand that still lingers at his side to pull him closer.

Perhaps it's the adrenaline, he thinks, that makes him feel this way. His heart pounds when the King under the Mountain comes this close anyway, he reasons, so why would this be any different? He feels an odd sense of awe when Thorin is nearby and he's admittedly feeling quite proud that he should be chosen to run with their leaders' little group. He feels all chuffed and puffed– out with delight at having managed to earn such favour from Thorin Oakenshield (of all people) for whom he's sure he's developed a certain… a certain _fondness_ , he'll say.

And, of course, running for their lives deep down in this God-forsaken mountain, he's sure that that certain fondness and the adrenaline pumping through his veins and that niggling, constant reminder that this might be the _last chance_ he'll ever get to express his feelings to Thorin, is exactly why all Bilbo wants to do is drag him to the side – to a quiet little corner where the dragon won't find them – and hold him close and grasp his fingers tightly; run his fingers through that majestic mane of hair and press his lips to the side of his face and _never let go._

Although, when he thinks about it, he's not _quite_ so certain how much the adrenaline has played a part in this, for there have been many, many times during his stay in the Company that he's wanted to do such things. Perhaps he wouldn't think so far ahead, but he'd found himself wanting to… To just touch the dwarf in tender, gentle ways – a quick hand-hold maybe or to run a hand down the side of his arm or– or that was that moment, only hours ago, when Thorin had caught the Key to Erebor, stopping it falling over the edge of the Mountain, and Bilbo had been so relieved and elated that he'd just wanted to jump and laugh and throw his arms around him.

So Bilbo, truth be told, _isn't_ so sure that it's the adrenaline anymore, but, he thinks, if he _does_ manage to find a quiet moment with Thorin Oakenshield anytime tonight, _that's_ what he'll be blaming. That'll be his excuse.

" _Bilbo! Thorin!"_

Balin calls from up ahead and interrupts the hobbit's thoughts. A blast of fire, glowing red, shoots around the corner behind them.

Bilbo sighs.

He shouldn't be so distracted at a time like this.

" _Come on, Bilbo!"_ Thorin yells.

They've still got a damn dragon to slay.

" _I'm coming!"_

But maybe later, he thinks. Maybe later he'll get his moment.


	5. E for Embrace

Twenty-Six Too Little

 _ **E**_ – _E_ mbrace.

 _Summary:_ For the first time in a long, _long_ time, Bilbo feels at home.

* * *

Bilbo can't explain it to anyone because he doesn't quite understand it himself.

" _I've never been so wrong in all my life!"_

That moment – that embrace… It's something Bilbo's thought about quite a lot since then. He remembers that morning often now.

He thinks back to the way the King under the Mountain turns to him and wraps him in this tight embrace; he thinks of how his arms so securely wind around his shoulders and pull him in so close to his chest. Bilbo remembers the touch of Thorin's hands on his back and the prickle of hair against his cheek and he thinks that at that moment, in spite of all the thoughts that had whirled around inside his head, the few that stood out were _safety. Security._

And the one that really struck a chord – _home._

It was strange, he knew, for he had thought of nothing but his own little hobbit–hole back in the Shire since the day he left his door. But now the word had come to linger in the back of his mind whenever he stood still long enough to notice it.

What was home, he thought?

It was the feeling of warmth and comfort. It was a place of safety. It was being relaxed and welcome. It was ease. It was loving.

And at their contact, Bilbo sees, that Thorin had makes him think of all of those things. The slightest of touches ignites the fire in the sitting room of Bag End. The blue–grey of his eyes is like the surface of The Water glittering in the daylight. His rare warm, tender smiles are like sunshine in the garden and his heartbeat dances like butterflies in the blue of the sky so fast and full of joy that sometimes Bilbo thinks he'll need to sit down to steady the giddiness of his head and calm the thumping in his chest.

For a second, he imagines his home back in the Shire.

He imagines himself sat on the bench by the door in the evening sun, soaking up the warmth and blowing smoke-rings off into the distance. And then, all of a sudden, he thinks of Thorin sat beside him and the picture, now planted firmly in his mind, takes form and it blossoms into something that makes Bilbo, in Beorn's home, close his eyes and sigh deeply in longing in a way that he would probably be embarrassed for when he thought back on it later. He and Thorin are side-by-side beneath the setting sun and he's smiling and Thorin's laughing that deep, rumbling laugh of his that sends shivers up the hobbit's spine and makes his cheeks flush pink. Their pipes are now discarded and their hands are busied with each other. Bilbo's fingers timidly brush against the calloused dwarf's and they slowly slide together, interlocking and Thorin squeezes his hand tight. The gesture is warm and caring and it makes Bilbo's head spin with elation. He rests his head on the other's shoulder and they become one silhouette as the last few rays of the sun slip silently away in the east…

And then the idyllic picture is gone and he's torn back into reality as Thorin pulls away from him – that gentle smile glowing in the light of dawn and Bilbo feels it.

What was it he'd said to the dwarves?

" _That's home."_

That's right…

" _That's where I belong."_

He is tired and he is hungry and he's a world away from home, but that doesn't matter anymore. He feels accepted. He feels wanted. He feels like he _belongs_.

A weight seems to lift from his shoulders. Bilbo stares back at the twelve other dwarves and the meddling wizard who look on fondly and he lets out a deep breath. Thorin still looks kindly at him and Bilbo knows he will forever remember that embrace.

For the first time in a long, long time… He feels at home.


	6. F for Festivities

Twenty-Six Too Little

 _ **F**_ – _F_ estivities.

 _Summary:_ Thorin's not sure if it's the alcohol or the music or the pipe–smoke in the air, but he doesn't care. He's going to kiss him anyway.

* * *

" _LONG LIVE THE KING UNDER THE MOUNTAIN!"_

" _LONG LIVE THORIN OAKENSHIELD!"_

An indescribably loud clamour breaks out amongst the party as the dwarves of the Company stand tall on their table. Their mugs are raised so high above their heads that several are spilling beer over themselves, but they don't care. They pay it no heed as they proclaim their loyalty to their King and raise a toast. The dwarves of Erebor cheer – the sound so loud that the very Mountain seems to shake and the caverns echo with their cries. Bilbo thinks he may go deaf and, astounded, yet heart-warmed at the sense of camaraderie amongst dwarven-folk, he raises his own mug of ale and cheers along at the top of his voice, grinning and more than happy to join in the party.

Bilbo has only ever in his life been to hobbit parties (naturally), but no gathering has _ever_ compared to this, he is sure. Dwarven parties are really something else. They are all gathered in the grandest, most spacious of halls, near the heart of Erebor's very roots and in it he's sure the entirety of most of the other dwarven Kingdoms have come to celebrate. There are dwarves of every type and shape and size that Bilbo could have ever hoped to see! And there are the Lakemen – Bard the Dragon Slayer and newly-crowned King of Dale sits at the head of his own table and he seems to have forgiven the Company for all that had befallen between the death of Smaug and the victory at the Battle of the Five Armies as he joins in the toast, stood tall and as noble as Bilbo has ever seen him. Even the Elves of Mirkwood have come! King Thranduil of the Woodland Realm has apparently found peace with the dwarves of Erebor (or at least he's making out that he has) and even he has come to honour the new Mountain King, though he is much quieter as he drinks to Thorin's health and he remains as distant as ever. But, whoever is there, they have all come to drink to the King and drink they do with all the vigour and good-spirit they can find!

This is quite far apart from the actual coronation ceremony, Bilbo thinks. That had been calmer, more ordered with an entire months' worth of preparation behind it and those present had stood down and held their new ruler with all the respect and decency they could muster. It had been a holy event and a true privilege to witness, but, though the hobbit was sure he'd have never missed _this_ party for the world, this was the exact opposite. Dwarves danced on tables whilst music resounded off the walls; drink poured from caskets as big as statues; the smell of food that had been long since devoured still lingered in the air and it was rich and powerful unlike anything the hobbit, despite all his experience in the kitchen, had ever smelt before. It was disorganised and clumsy and rough around the edges, but it was merry and light-hearted; it was every bit like its hosts and it was everything a hobbit could have ever hoped for.

And, amongst it all, at the very end of the hall, sat on a high seat laden with cushions and edged in gold Thorin overlooked the crowds, a triumphant smile on his face that Bilbo had seen only a handful of times. He sat so high above the rest as a beacon in the sky, the gold of the Raven Crown of Erebor like the sun above a cloud of pipe–smoke. He appeared so noble, so dignified in front of his people that Bilbo couldn't help but feel so awe-inspired. His breath was taken from his lips and his chest swelled with pride every time he gazed upon the magnificence of the King – Thorin Oakenshield! Son of Thrain! Son of Thror! King under the Mountain!

So full and elated with pride and delight for his dwarf, Bilbo claps his hands together in time to the music, eager to celebrate; eager to join the party. He laughs and drinks when prompted and he sings merrily to many dwarven songs even if he does not know all the words, picking them up or at least the tune as they go on. He's even prompted by none other than Bofur and several other of the dwarves of the Company to share with them some of his own tunes and he leaps up onto the table, albeit somewhat awkwardly and timidly at first under the watch of so large an audience, and breaks out into a rendition of a poem that he'd started to compose in thought of his most remarkable journey, although it was yet unfinished;

" _Still round the corner there may wait,  
A new road or a secret gate…!"_

The dwarves take well to it and in a matter of minutes, Bilbo's got them all word-perfect and the hall is filled with hobbit–tunes and Bilbo can't help but feel very pleased with himself as he's whisked down from the top of the table (Fili and Kili have taken over next, thoroughly entertained by this new type of song). The little hobbit is so caught up in the celebrations, it seems, that he even allows himself to be led to the middle of the hall where dwarves and men and even a few more of the laid-back elves are dancing, winding in and out and around each other to the beat of the music. Bilbo claps his hands and skips in time with many different faces, as is the style of the dance, until, after a few minutes have passed, the crowds seem to part and all of a sudden he finds himself face to face by none other than Thorin Oakenshield – newly crowned King – and he stops dead in his tracks, swallowing hard, suddenly very stunned.

But Thorin smiles graciously at him. The hobbit opens his mouth; tries to say something to him for a few seconds, but he stammers and the words can't come out. He suddenly has a terrifying thought and his mind is going a mile a minute as he mentally screams;

' _Oh Lord, did I dance like that in front of the King of the Mountain? Did he see me sing? Oh, blast these dwarves! Why did they have to make me sing?'_

He laughs a little over his stupidity because he's flustered and dizzy. Thorin chuckles.

"You're enjoying yourself Bilbo?"

"Am I what?" he replies dumbly before choking on his own words and hastily adding; " _oh–! Oh,_ yes, yes, I, uh…"

"You like to dance?" Thorin says knowingly, a smirk on the edge of his lips so relaxed and teasing that Bilbo can't help but shake his head and grin at him.

"Oh, Thorin," he replies; "however did you guess?"

Suddenly there's a glint in Thorin's eyes and Bilbo recognises and admires it fondly. It's that look he gives him whenever he's exceptionally pleased; it's that tender, loving gaze he sends him whenever they're close enough that no one else can see; it's the kindest, most caring look that Bilbo has ever been blessed enough to receive and he revels in it as Thorin wordlessly takes his hand and pulls him in.

"Care for a dance, Master Baggins?"

He can only hope that the dwarf can read the affection in his eyes because, even if it's worth only half the amount of love that Thorin sends him with but a mere glance, he just wants him to know that it's there. So, so badly he wants him to know just how much he means to him.

"After you, Your Majesty."

Thorin leads him to the middle of the dancefloor and Bilbo would normally be feeling embarrassed by now with all the onlookers around him, but, as the music changes and a slow, carefully-timed melody fills the room, right now in the company of the King he can't find it in himself to care.

It's a beautiful tune for a dwarven-hall, the hobbit notes in the back of his mind. The only music of their he's ever heard before would be drinking songs, jolly rhymes or more solemn, softly-spoken poems sung in voices as deep as the caverns of the Mountain itself. He remembers Thorin's voice so deep and wonderful as he sang by the fireplace at Bag End and he almost shivers in delight.

But instead he concentrates now as the rhythm of the dance takes them across the floor in patterns so intricate and graceful that he's surprised he hasn't tripped over his own massive feet by now. But the dwarf guides him carefully back and forth, from side to side… And all the while his eyes are on his burglar, watching his face; the glow of the candlelight against his cheeks; the soft tips of his pointed ears peeking out from underneath sandy curls.

Bilbo looks up at his King and his eyes do not leave him as they make their way through the dancing crowd; their movements and their timing becoming one and effortlessly fluid as they take in each other's presence. He knows the King's each and every movement moments before it occurs until, that is, the music slows and suddenly he stops, holding the hobbit in his place to make him come to a halt.

He narrows his eyebrows only slightly in a silent question.

But he doesn't get an answer and the only words that immediately come out of the dwarf's mouth are; "You're a fine dancer."

"Thank you?" It's a confused reply, but, as the hands Thorin had on his sides skim down to meet his hands, Bilbo can't bring himself to push it, completely and so desperately drawn to the other. "Thorin…"

Thorin gives him _that look_ again and hesitates for a moment, carefully considering his words, wondering how best to start. He eventually squeezes Bilbo's hands a little tighter and brings them closer towards him. "I am deeply thankful that you stayed for the celebration, Master Baggins." Is all he literally says, but Bilbo can read the subtext underneath;

" _I'm glad you're here with me."_

"Thorin,"

He's getting lost in the moment, he realises. The music in the hall seems so quiet and the faces all around them seem so blurred – merging into the background and fading around them like a wall of smoke, shutting out the rest of Middle Earth and enclosing them in their own private world. He takes in the face of his King – he runs his eyes over his glorious cheeks; the shape of his nose; he feels the warmth of his breath… And then his eyes come to fall upon his lips – his lips so soft and pale; so, _so_ begging to be touched…

He notices then that Thorin's still going on. One hand leaves his and comes up to his shoulder and Bilbo is suddenly aware that he's inching closer.

"I would not have made it here without you." He whispers, his voice but a breath of air.

Bilbo swallows. "Thorin."

He's still talking. _Still talking_ when all Bilbo can do is watch his lips move temptingly – _so, so temptingly._

"I would see that you–"

And his patience snaps.

"Your Majesty," he says stiffly and breaks from his grip to grab the edges of his coat. "Shut up."

And he pulls Thorin down and plants his mouth on his, melding their lips together and giving him the sweetest, most passionate kiss he can manage into which he pours his heart; his emotions – all the relief and excitement and joy that he's felt tonight just by being here to witness Thorin Oakenshield finally ascend to the throne after all they'd been through. After all the danger and the frustration and the threats of defeat that they'd had to face just to reach the Mountain itself… It was a good night, by Bilbo's reckoning, to make things right.

They part after not even a minute, but it's reluctant and slow and Thorin's grinning triumphantly – satisfied as anything. Bilbo swallows and doesn't speak, breathing steadily to stop himself from falling to his knees with the thrill. He stands quietly and waits for Thorin to say something.

But Thorin doesn't. He's not sure whether it's the alcohol or the music or the pipe–smoke in the air, but he doesn't care. He's going to kiss him anyway. Again. In front of _everyone._ He pulls in his dear little hobbit and lifts him nearly off his feet, startling him. Bilbo throws his arms around his neck and deepens their kiss, opening his mouth and letting him in. It's like nothing either of them has ever felt before and it's the best they've ever felt – blissful beyond words – as they revel in the sensation of their bodies pressed together; of their arms around each other and of their fingers in their hair.

In the background a cheer erupts, but neither of them hear it.

Neither of them care.


	7. G for Gardening

Twenty-Six Too Little

 _ **G**_ – _G_ ardening.

 _Summary:_ Bilbo is very particular about his garden, Thorin finds.

* * *

" _Thorin Oakenshield,_ for the _last_ time, you can dig up those roots or you can dig your own grave!"

Thorin exhaled, a smile twitching at the edge of his mouth. It's exhausting work this, he finds – especially when he's working in the company of a hobbit.

Thorin know, as most did, or, at least, those who actually knew _something_ about these quite little creatures in the first place did, that hobbits had a love of things that grew. Trees, leaves, bushes, berries, flowers and the miles worth of crops that they had spread about the countryside… All were undeniably precious to them and most especially they took extra care of these things if they had their own garden to tend to, for they took immense pride in the things that they created from the earth themselves – bright and beautiful for all around to see.

But hobbits were also very… _passionate_ about their gardens. That Thorin had not quite known when he'd been brought out into the garden for a long day's work. He had not known exactly _how_ passionate they were when it came to horticulture and Bilbo… Well, Bilbo is very _particular_ indeed about his garden, Thorin finds.

This he was being quickly reminded of as he crouched, knee-deep in the remains of the winter flowerbeds, overgrown with pesky, deep-rooted weeds, wiping his brow under the heat of the springtime sun and sighing as he took the abuse that the hobbit hurled at him in the background.

"Yes, Master Baggins!" he called back, his voice deliberately sharp and automatic. "Anything you say, Master Baggins!"

"Now don't you take that tone with me!" Bilbo warned, brushing the dirt from his gloves and pointing a finger over at him threateningly. "You said you wanted to help and I will hold you to it!"

"Yes," the dwarf began as he leaned forwards to dig his trowel into the earth; "but when I said that I'd help you do _'a bit of gardening',_ I didn't think you'd be digging up the entire back of Bag End!" He looked back at the hobbit and waved his arm in a vague gesture that seemed to encompass the whole of The Hill which was now reduced to not much more than a messy obstacle course of half-dug holes and piles of dirt and abandoned equipment strewn about the grass.

"Oh please, Thorin," Bilbo rolled his eyes; "it's not as if I'm decimating the entire garden." (Thorin gave him a look of disbelief which he ignored) "I've gotta clean this place up as it is, I mean, look at this!" He padded over to the wheelbarrow full of dead, useless plants that had lost against the winter chill and he held them up as evidence. "Can't have all this lying around, so, out with the old, as they say!" he exclaimed, returning to the job at hand which was, of course, neatly planting and burying the new summer plants amongst the laurels and the bushes beneath the window which would flourish and bloom into a million colours when the weather warmed a little more. He grinned to himself as he patted them into place, packing them into the dirt, and Thorin couldn't help but smile at his hobbit – so proud and loving of something so simple. Bilbo prized his garden above many other things and he supposed that this was no big task for someone who loved his work so much.

At this thought, he picked up his trowel again and got digging, even forgetting his original disdain for having to do the tougher side of the work – deep digging and wrestling with stubborn weeds too far embedded into the dirt for Bilbo to manage. He hoped it would all be worth it. He hoped that spending all the best hours of his morning and (probably) most of his afternoon completely reorganising and clearing up Bag End would be worth the while when he visited next in the summer. He hoped that he'd be greeted after the long journey from the Mountain to a blaze of blues and greens, pinks and purples, yellows and stunning reds. He hoped that he'd be able to stop and stare and just get lost in the forest that surrounded the hobbit hole and he wished to smell the pollen in the air; hear the insects busy in the flower petals.

And he couldn't wait to see the look on the little hobbits' face when he finally stood surrounded by the fruit of his labours – his cheeks tinted adorably red in the sun; his face lit up with glee; a spark of life in his eyes; perhaps trailing a hand through the flowers…

The squeak of a wheelbarrow drew Thorin back to reality and, seeing said hobbit making his way over, he immediately leaned forwards again and hurriedly dug into the earth before Bilbo realised he'd been daydreaming. He would rather not irritate someone so driven that particular day. Thorin only watched out of the corner of his eye as Bilbo knelt beside him and began to gather up the discarded weeds that had been successfully pulled from the ground as he piled them all into the wheelbarrow, pressing them down to fit in every last leaf. He was so focused, Thorin thought, so determined to make his work worthwhile. The thought of Bilbo in this daydream – cheerful and carefree and _cute_ – came out of nowhere and he looked away, letting his hair fall to the side of his face, hoping to God he wasn't blushing. Of course, Thorin Oakenshield – son of Thrain; a dwarf of Durin's fols; King under the Mountain! – did not _blush_ , he reminded himself. But just in case…

There was a chuckle. Just a small, barely-noticeable chuckle to his side, but it made it just that little bit harder for Thorn to keep his cool as Bilbo leaned over – so, so close that he could feel his breath on his cheek – and asked him; "What are you thinking about, Thorin?"

He felt like groaning. He would have slapped himself just to wipe the silly, dazed look off his face if it wouldn't have been so obvious. Didn't this hobbit know what he was doing to him? Didn't he know how innocent or how completely and utterly captivating he was? Didn't he know what happened when he got that close?

Well, he _did_ know, that was for sure (Thorin wasn't even going to think about _those_ satisfying, heavenly, _glorious_ memories) but he didn't always do it on purpose… Which was even cuter and made Thorin want to slap himself in the face about ten times more just to stop his mind running away with fantasies and daydreams.

"Thorin?"

The dwarf cursed himself. He'd been so lost he hadn't even answered. How _stupid_ of him! He raised his head, all ready to respond and pretend that he'd just been so _enthralled_ with the prospect of digging up these last few roots that he hadn't heard him speak, when he Bilbo… Tilting his head in that quirky little manner of his, brows drawn in, but smiling a little; puzzled, yet amused…

"Thorin?"

Oh, how adorable.

And then something seemed to click in Bilbo's head and he straightened his back, folding his arms across his chest and trying his very best not to break out into a massive grin. "Thorin, are you fantasising instead of working?"

A few seconds passed.

"No."

Bilbo threw his head back and let out a little burst of laughter. "Oh, I don't believe it! Thorin, you can't fool me! Ah, I don't want to know, just get back to work!" he ordered, but, surprisingly, he didn't sound as angry as he had a moment ago. "I won't have you getting distracted whilst I've still got shrubs to plant over here."

The dwarf shrugged a little and shot him a sly look. "Very well, Master Baggins, but, if I'm not mistaken, I think you very much _would_ like to know about it."

"Oh?"

"Oh."

"Thorin."

"Master Baggins?"

"Thorin, knowing you, your mind was probably down some filthy gutter that I'd rather not think about right now, but, you know, by all means get this bed done and perhaps you can enlighten me!"

There was a pause during which the dwarf, not quite expecting this, smirked, a dangerously playful expression creeping up onto his face at the prospect. "Well, I think that we can _both_ do a bed _together_ if you'd like,"

"Oh Lord, who'd have known it – the King under the Mountain is insatiable." Bilbo rolled his eyes, sighing to himself before making to stand up, only he hesitated and, after a second's thought, he leaned over to plant a brief kiss on Thorin's cheek. _"Later."_ He whispered before getting to his feet. "There'll be more _later_."

Thorin grinned, his face alight with mischief. "Yes, Master Baggins!" he cried. "Anything you say, Master Baggins!"

" _IF_ we finish before supper time!"

"Which one? You have about three each evening."

He received a light slap on the shoulder for his efforts.

" _Thorin Oakenshield!"_

He just laughed as he carried on uprooting the plants in the garden of Bag End. There was much to look forward to…

If he ever finished gardening.


	8. H for Hair

Twenty-Six Too Little

 _ **H**_ – _H_ air.

 _Summary:_ Thorin is fascinated with Bilbo's hair.

* * *

It's ridiculously mesmerising, Thorin thinks to himself each morning as he wakes up to the start of a new day in the best way possible.

It's just after dawn. There is calm in the air and outside the sweet sound of birdsong has begun. The world is still slow and peaceful and the first few rays of light are peeping over the treetops and through the curtains to scatter across the room – spots of it landing in seemingly random patterns as if through a giant kaleidoscope. They are still blurry and formless to Thorin as his eyes adjust after a long night of sleep and he pays them little attention, letting his eyelids drop as he lets his head fall back onto the pillow, sinking comfortably into the fine bedding.

He lays there for a few moments – as still and quiet as the world outside – until he feels it. A slight tickle against his cheek. He breathes deeply and it moves to his nose and he opens his eyes to be greeted by the most glorious shade of golden-brown, all twisted and curled around Bilbo's head and resting against his face, tickling him as he breathes it in.

Bilbo's still asleep beside him and only mumbles faintly, almost silently, as Thorin further wraps his arms around him, bringing his back to his chest and rests his face in his hair, nuzzling it softly.

Thorin is completely fascinated by hobbit hair. Or, more specifically, Bilbo's hair. It's just so… _soft._ It's sleek and smooth like the finest silk across his calloused hands as he slowly runs his fingertips through the finest strands he's ever seen. It's like water running effortlessly over his skin, pooling through the spaces between his fingers and gracefully falling back into their rightful place, settling with a little bounce as they twist back into shape. The curls are dainty like their owner and Thorn likes to twist them around his fingers as they lay in bed together; likes to make the hobbit grin and chuckle each morning as he lightly tugs at them, catching his fingers up in the bed-headed mess that is Bilbo's hair.

It's utterly fascinating. And addictive, Thorin finds as he goes back again and takes them between his fingers, idly playing with the light tresses in one of the gentlest forms of affection he's ever shown anybody. Bilbo's special in that way, he feels. He might have his own gruff ways of expressing fondness, but when the hobbit's around he just can't help it. He'll be as tender and caring as he likes and it'll be more than welcome.

Like playing with his hair, for example.

He makes a habit of this almost every morning. He'll wake up with his cheek to it, see the haze of brown first thing as he slowly opens his eyes and he'll lay there in the quiet, whether Bilbo is awake or not, and he'll settle to take in its feel; its colour; he'll take in the sensation of his better half lying next to him and the slow and steady sound of his breath and the way his shoulders rise and fall ever so slightly with every one of them. He doesn't think he could be any more hypnotized… And then the sun rises a little further and more rays of light are sent through the window. One falls across the bed and the curls interwoven between Thorin's fingers are suddenly alight in the most beautiful shade of gold he's ever seen. It's as bright as anything he's ever seen and his mind takes him back to the forges of Erebor where there run rivers of liquid metal, glowing in the dark, but this is different. This is different in a way he can't fully describe. This gold is far from that of Erebor – this feels warmer and humbler than that big, towering Mountain and it's a world away from that. This is the little sanctuary on the other side of Middle Earth where the days are quiet and peaceful. This is the breath of fresh air in the hectic life of a busy King. This is the view he wakes up to on this side of the world and it's entirely different from the start of his day in his Kingdom.

Thorin thinks it's absolutely perfect and he'd be pleased to wake in this way every day for as long as he lives, if he can.

He's deep in thought – mulling over all of this in his mind as his fingers twist and twirl before his face when there's a sigh. It's louder than the breathing there was before and the shoulders against the dwarf's chest fall backwards. Bilbo half-rolls over, slowly being roused from sleep and yawns deeply, his nose scrunching up in the most adorable way possible and Thorin has to try hard to hold back a burst of laughter.

" _Thorin…"_

Bilbo blinks in the morning light and settles back into the dwarf's chest, now almost fully awake and prepared for a lazy morning in the comfort of their bed. He looks over his shoulder and for a few seconds their eyes are locked; both entranced with the other, never wanting to move or look away for fear of losing this fond, sweet moment.

"Good morning, Bilbo." The dwarf whispers.

And he's greeted by one of the cheeriest, sunniest, most gorgeous smiles he's ever seen.

"Morning, Thorin."


	9. I for Inspiration or Imagery

Twenty-Six Too Little

 _ **I**_ – _I_ nspiration / _I_ magery.

 _Summary:_ Poems won't write themselves.

* * *

It had been dark still when Bilbo finally rose; grumpy and frustrated, giving in to the restlessness that had plagued him since he'd first tried to get his head down for a good night's rest. Honestly, he thought, if the dwarves snores any louder, they'd end up raising the entire hillside they were sleeping on and _then_ where would they be? Moody and lazy and as fatigued as Bilbo was as he stood, brushing the dust off his jacket and casting the others a dirty look before trudging off through the scratchy grass, intent on finding a little corner or clearing to sit in and pass the time if sleep wouldn't come to him.

Although, now that he looked at the sky, he saw that dawn would not be far off and that he would probably just be getting off to doze when the first light of the sun roused his companions and he'd be forced to haul himself up ready for another day of endless trekking, as irritated and moody as ever.

Not an ideal plan then, he supposed, heaving a heavy sigh and resigning himself to at least just _waiting_ 'til the sun rose. Or something. He didn't know, but, walking through the bushes that his their camp from the world, he did soon find a small clearing in the greenery. The shadows had just begun to lift and the sweet scent of the last summer flowers was in the air and Bilbo found himself breathing deeply; calmer and greatly relieved to find such a quiet resting place. The hobbit — as quietly as only a hobbit can — eased himself through the leaves to hide away in this secret spot, away from the huddled, clumsy campsite behind him.

He sat to the side, his spirits lifted a moment as he revelled in the silence, uninterrupted save for the occasional buzz of an insect or the movement of leaves. The hour before dawn was calm and Bilbo, remembering he had time to kill, glanced down at the pocket of his jacket. There sat inside a small weight; barely noticeable. He reached inside and retrieved his prized possession that he had carried in secret since Rivendell.

A little notepad he retrieved — leather-bound with pages smooth and soft to the touch as though the elves had in fact woven it from some luxury fabric that Bilbo could never hope to encounter in the Hobbiton market. A pencil he found also, tucked away in a separate pocket, that he had been given alongside it by one of the elves who tended to Lord Elrond's extensive library.

Bilbo checked the pages through and at this point in his journey was no longer surprised to find them as dry and clear as ever. He'd been drenched through in the rain; he'd been covered in mud; ran through ash; he'd gotten his jacket pockets soaked through in melted snow… But the pages still seemed as new as the day they were made. Bilbo praised elven crafts. If they hadn't held up so well, he would have lost it and all its contents long ago somewhere in the wild lands. And the content was especially something he wanted to keep safe… Even if it was, at the moment, not much more than a few jumbled notes; all unorganised; hurried scribbles scrawled down when it was late at night and none of the dwarves were looking.

But it was a start, Bilbo thought as he looked down in the dim light at his very first, rough attempts at poetry.

It had caught on him in Rivendell as he sat amongst the fair folk in their lofty halls and listened to their voices lifted in song — as bright as daylight and as rich in joy and ancient lore as anything he'd ever heard. It was like listening to the whistle of the wind or the flow of a stream and it was so captivating and had caught on him so that it had come into Bilbo's thoughts that he might (perhaps in time) learn to make such musical phrases and songs of his own to hum around the house or when walking through the trees.

And so he sat, perched on the edge of an old, fallen branch of a tree and stared into his notepad. His pencil in his hand was poised before the page — ready to dance away on the paper; to capture the detail of the images that would form in his mind…

But nothing came out. _Nothing_ came to mind. For all he had seen and done and for all the distance he'd travelled from home! Nothing!

The hobbit and novice poet grumbled in frustration, tapping the tip of his pencil on the edge of the page and willing the lines to come to him.

He wondered how on Earth long and famous songs had ever been made at all. How did one even begin? With the tunes or the lyrics? With the themes or simply rhyming couplets? How did one find the inspiration to get hem going, he wondered, because Bilbo had travelled so far that he figured he'd at least have something half—decent to write about by now.

He sighed. Did a person just have to be blessed with creativity to be able to write? Did one just have to be naturally talented? The thought was rather depressing. It damped his spirits to think that he may just not have the capability to write something of true beauty and he did most certainly feel that his skills were majorly inferior in comparison to those wise, fair elves of Rivendell.

Sat staring at the pages – messy and unorganised – Bilbo continued to tap away at the paper, just _praying_ that something might come out of it. Even if it was rough and unfinished it was _something_ to work on and polish up in time! So he _tap-tap-tapped_ away, trying to think…

When the sharp snap of a twig met his ears and cut off his thoughts abruptly.

Bilbo froze, suddenly aware that he was away from the group — all alone and vulnerable! — and remembering with horror the terror that stalked them across Middle Earth. He jumped up with impressive speed, about to draw his sword when the branches parted and he breathed a massive sigh of relief to see none other than Thorin making his way through the foliage.

"Master Hobbit," he drawled, sounding somewhat exhausted.

 _"Thorin!"_ Bilbo tried to calm his racing heartbeat. He managed to get out; "I thought you were an orc!"

"Likewise."

Bilbo laughed — a terrified, yet relieved, panicked breath of laughter — and shook his head. "Thorin, what are you doing?"

The dwarf stalked into the clearing, sheathing his sword back at his belt and replying; "I was on night watch." He explained. "A little early for burglars to be out of their beds, is it not?"

All of a sudden remembering that, yes, he, in fact _had_ deserted the group in the middle of the night, he hurriedly crossed his arms behind his back, hoping to conceal his little notebook from view. His ears tinged pink at the thought of any one of the dwarves finding it, though deep down he knew his fear was irrational and childish.

"I, um…" he racked his brain for an answer; "I needed a quick stroll." Thorin eyes him curiously, not quite convinced, it seemed, until Bilbo leaned forward, as if sharing some deep, dark secret. "To tell the truth, I can't take Bombur's snoring much longer."

The dwarf let out a sort of snort that might have been an attempt to conceal laughter, but Bilbo didn't get a chance to find out as quickly Thorin stepped back, back into the shadows of the clearing. "I suppose I can understand that," he replied and the hobbit thought he saw a twinkle of mirth in his eyes that shone like jewels in the dark around them. "It shan't be long before dawn." He continued, almost as if to himself, before looking up at the burglar and slowly stretching out a hand towards him. "Come, Master Baggins," Thorin swept his arm forwards in a gesture made to beckon Bilbo over and he obediently followed, staying just behind as the dwarf turned and made off into the greenery.

"Thorin?"

There was no answer from the Mountain King as they pushed their way through the bushes, but he occasionally would look over the back of his shoulder to check that his hobbit was still following him. But still no answer came from his mouth at the look of confusion on Bilbo's face until;

"Through here."

A few more steps ahead and Bilbo thought he could see the pale light of the early morning sky. He followed it, drawn towards the light – a pleasant change from the darkness that had encompassed the camp as he lay restless and uncomfortable – until it became clear that he was headed towards an outcrop or the edge of a mountain or cliff range. There the greenery lessened and the dirt lay exposed, though Bilbo could not concentrate on the clearing. He stared ahead, his attention caught, and his jaw dropped.

A valley lay before them – still shadowed and shrouded in light mist, sleeping still before the rise of the sun; under a sky painted in lilac and the subtlest oranges and blues. A river ran and wound its way like a fine silver thread, rushing from some place in the distance that he could not see. From such a height he could not see it run, but he could almost hear it in his mind; heard it gurgle and chortle in his ears and the hiss of the water-spray as it darted over rocks and leapt up over foliage. The land on either side sloped gently, then dramatically up towards the skies and the space below was lined with rocky ridges and rises covered in dark, forest-greens and here and there Bilbo thought he could make out the faint lilacs or pinks of flowering plants. His breath caught in his throat as he leaned towards the edge of the ridge where they stood and he saw the world tumble away beneath him until all below was distant and faint. Birds began to sing somewhere in the distance; the trees sighed in the breeze; and the cool air caressed his cheeks and swept away the tiredness from his exhausted body. He felt on top of the world.

"It's quite a view." Thorin interrupted the silence, pacing around to stand beside him, overlooking the landscape. "I thought you might appreciate it." He continued casually. "Hobbits and their love of the land and all."

"Yes…" Bilbo breathed, near-silent. "It's beautiful." He added, straightening in the hopes of perhaps seeing more – wildlife or colourful trees or a many number of other things. It was true that hobbits had an innate love of the earth and all that grew on it and to see these bigger corners of the world and to see such a diverse land spread out before him was like nothing he'd ever dreamed of. It was magnificent.

"Good," the dwarf responded and, for the first time, Bilbo turned to face him in the dim light. He appeared softer, less battle-hardened, if that were possible, and he seemed to have gained a sense of youth that the hobbit had never seen on him before. "You have some time to admire it still." He said and took a few steps to the side as he surveyed the area. Bilbo, sensing the conversation was dying, perched on the edge of a nearby rock and cast his eyes eastwards once more.

He considered then taking out his notebook once again and trying some more to create some musical masterpiece, but the block in his mind still plagued him and the landscape was still begging to be looked at and he settled for just holding it in his lap; his pencil to the side, abandoned. More so, he thought, would it be difficult to write a thing in the presence of Thorin Oakenshield – so imposing and grand and… _distracting_.

Bilbo tried to clear his throat discreetly. Things had been different lately. Often before Bilbo bad thought that the dwarf would never have been so accepting of him ― so familiar and _gentle_. Only recently had he wished him leave the Company and yet now… The change was welcome and a great relief. Whereas before he was like ice, now Thorin was beginning to burn hot like a mighty fire that warmed the hobbit's; made his breath quicken; made him feel so, so self―conscious as he sat across from him, alone and away from the other dwarves.

It was a privilege, Bilbo realised, to be granted such private and inclusive moments with the future King of Erebor. It was rare ( _incredibly_ rare) that Thorin Oakenshield would allow another into his company in such a way – in such a way that he would feel able to let them into his personal space. He'd seen it with some of the older dwarves such as Balin and Dwalin and, of course, with his nephews, but he'd never have thought that Thorin would have held him in such high regard that he'd be allowed to sit with him so closely; talking or just sitting quietly, content in each other's company. There had been a couple of these times before – after the incident at the Carrock which had completely swayed the dwarf's opinion of him – and Bilbo had feared that the other dwarves may come to resent him over time, being so favoured by their leader, but they had just laughed and teased him when Thorin wasn't looking. Besides, they knew that their leader valued each and every one of them, but with Bilbo there seemed to be something more.

But for now, Bilbo wouldn't dwell on that thought. For now he would just sit in silence beside him as they watched the world slowly wake down in the valley; the sun rising, orange and wreathed in flame, steadily with every second and the two were entranced.

"I remember sights like this…" Thorin whispered all of a sudden — his voice barely audible over the rustle of the branches in the background. "The sun rising bright above the clouds… The valley shining bright in a river of gold…"

The hobbit glanced sideways at him and his breath hitched at the sight of the sunlight as it illuminated the dwarf's face. He glowed like a candle in the darkness; like a glorious beacon sat high above the world up there on the ridge where they sat; and Bilbo was so entranced that he didn't speak or make a sound, watching intently as he grew brighter with every second and watching the movement of his lips as he spoke slowly;

"It was not always as it is now." He shook his head and lowered his voice so much that, for a moment, it looked as though he was quickly descending into true misery and Bilbo worried that he might have to intervene because Thorin, of all people – of all _dwarves_ especially – did not allow himself to feel so low. "It was once a land of green; of gold… Of prosperity… It was once the greatest land of our people and yet a world away now it sits – blackened and violated by the worm… And they say it is hopeless… They say it is hopeless, but I will not stand down! I will not allow out homeland to be so wrongly defiled! I will not let our Kingdom lay waste to Smaug! We will take this chance to take _back_ Erebor – to slay the dragon and let sights like these grace our lands with beauty once again…" He waved his hand vaguely out at the sight of the valley and the daybreak and, by the end his little speech, his voice had reached its loudest and the words were fierce and strong, like a fire burning within him and he was so full of vigour and life and _passion_ that Bilbo could not help but feel in complete and utter awe.

He could just see it there in his mind – the Lonely Mountain and its valley and the lands green with grass; the wind rustling through the trees on the mountainside and the tranquillity of the hours before the day dawned and, as it turned out, that was enough.

He and Thorin had soon departed back to the camp and there, in the hour that the dwarves were risen from their sleep, he found himself hunched over in his corner of the clearing – the _scratchy-scratching_ of his pencil loud upon their ears and soon, after many additions and improvements

It was no poem, but Thorin's words had fell in similar ways upon his ears and the image on the paper was enough to send thoughts and ideas and inspiration rushing through his mind – many poems and sonnets beginning to form inside his head and if ever he would find himself at a loss for words, he would look back through the pages of his notebook and come across his work of art again and soon the lines would be flowing once more like the River Running, pouring from the gates of Erebor.

It was an etching – a tall, rocky peak wreathed in cloud; surrounded as if in a sea of sky and behind it there came the light. Shadows there were etched – patchy, criss-cross patterns that Bilbo could draw fairly quickly – that gathered to one side of the page, yet as the sun rose to the east, there they became lighter, less dense and they faded into nothingness. Rays of light broke unhindered atop the white of the clouds and the edge of the mountainside was bathed in it and the shadows cast across the rocky terrain were intricate and detailed, winding round the edge of the slopes as they descended back into the shadowed side of Erebor.

"You have an eye for beauty, Master Baggins," Thorin said to him one morning, a smile playing upon his lips, as Bilbo gathered his things after a long nights work of composing.

"I'd say I was _inspired_." Was all he said.

* * *

 _A/N_ : Don't mind me just dying over my ironic summary - it's been like a week and I'm so behind. The block was strong with this one. And I'm so busy. So excuse the quality this thing just didn't want to be written.


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